


spaces between us hold all our secrets

by g_uttertrash



Series: domestic monsters [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Monsters, Siren, Spring, Vampires, Witches, and it gets resolved with flowers and ribbons so no worries :), just a teeny bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_uttertrash/pseuds/g_uttertrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The house in Greater Gloomingshire just gets stranger and stranger: Mysterious comings and goings, sneaky glances, and secrets that nobody seems willing to share. Yet. </p><p>(Zayn threatens Louis with bodily harm, Niall wolfs out, and when it comes to investigating his flatmates, Detective Harry is on the case!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. april showers

**Author's Note:**

> "the next one won't take me as long i said" lmao ok. ANYWAY real quick: this one is CHAPTERED because i just kept writing and couldn't stop myself, so be sure to read them all, otherwise you're gonna be like "wow that was the lamest one-shot of all time" haha
> 
> happy spring! lmao what if i just do one update per season....that's a JOKE don't worry..................i hope
> 
> this whole idea is loosely based on [this](http://moniquill.tumblr.com/post/66494076079/necrotype-domestic-monsters-the-witch) tumblr post and the title is from, of course, one direction's "spaces"
> 
> BTW, a few of you said something along the lines of being interested in a tumblr for updates on this? so i made [one](http://g-uttertrash.tumblr.com/)! xo

_April_

Niall says he’s going to visit his older brother Greg for three days in the middle of the week, despite having work. Nobody bats an eyelash.

If anybody hears howling in the forest around the house, none of them mention it.  

When he gets back, he sleeps constantly and looks awful for days, pale and worn. Harry spikes all of his drinks with healing spells without Niall knowing, hoping the tenets of Witch-hood can forgive him.

He can’t help it. He worries about his boys.   

* * *

One day, Harry can’t stand it any longer. He glances at Louis sitting on the couch. “Lou, how come you never eat?”

Louis looks at him with wide eyes the color of clear-cut gems. “What?”

“You never eat. Ever.”

“I do! I just had a cookie earlier. It was delicious, good one, Haz.”

Harry ignores the compliment, even if it makes him profusely happy. “I mean _meals_. You always duck out on dinner. Why?” He takes a deep breath to prepare himself, reminding himself that it’s okay, that it’s not as if there’s something wrong with him, it’s all just a matter of opinion. “Do you not like my cooking?”

Louis’ mouth falls open. “What? I—No! _No._ That’s not it at all. You’re a wonderful cook. You might be better than Niall, and he’s an actual chef.”

Niall flashes them a middle finger from his place on the floor, fiddling with his Xbox controller. “Prick.”

“Then why don’t you ever eat?”

“Look, Harry,” Niall says, looking over at them. “He’s got a thing about food.”

Harry tilts his head. “A thing?”

“Yeah, you know. He doesn’t like to eat in front of people or whatever."

Harry turns his pretty doe-eyes on Louis. “You don’t?”

Louis shrugs uncomfortably, flashing a glare in Niall’s direction. “I…don’t, no. So it’s nothing against you. I eat, just not around everyone else.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Louis stands up from where he was sitting delicately on the back of the couch, going to Harry and touching his arm. His fingertips are icy cold, even through Harry’s t-shirt, and he has to grit his teeth and fight not to jump away, rubbing at the skin there to erase the cold-burn of his touch. 

“I could try, though. For you.”

Sometimes, Louis says things that are so genuine, so unlike what Harry is used to, that he can only stare.

“If you want, I mean,” Louis says, clarifying. “And if it’s something really good, like chicken parm or something.”

Harry grins. “Chicken parm I can do. Would you…do you want to help me?”

“In the kitchen?” Niall laughs so hard that he drops the controller, rolling onto his back. “That’s a right laugh. Louis’ dead terrible in there, he’ll break everything. You’re better off asking him to stay _out_.”

Louis makes a pained face. “I’m afraid he’s right, love. But I’ll watch? And keep my hands politely to myself?”

“Not too much, I hope,” Harry says, and it’s the most daring, wild thing he’s ever done and his heart is racing as he walks away, his cheeks warm with pride and confidence at the way Louis’ eyes glow with delight and the way he can feel him watching him walk away.

He doesn’t see Niall shake his head and say to Louis, “Bad idea, mate.”

He doesn’t see Louis flash Niall his own one-fingered salute back at him.

Harry hums the entire time and some of the ingredients hum and buzz along with him. He has to be stern and shush them whenever someone walks past the kitchen, but he doesn’t stop smiling once.

That night, Louis tries, he really does. He chokes down most of the chicken parm and it _should_ be delicious—in fact, it is, for about the space of a second. But then that annoying vampirism _thing_ of his kicks in and the food deadens to ash in his mouth. It sits heavily in his stomach, _churning_ away, so loudly he’s sure that everyone can hear it when they retire to the sitting room to smoke a bowl and watch some telly afterward. It’s like putting diesel petrol into a regular car; it just doesn’t work and jams up all the inner workings into a jumbled mess.

While they’re watching Orphan Black, Louis excuses himself, claiming he’s going to do the dishes. Instead, he ducks outside through the mud room off the kitchen and throws up outside next to the cellar doors. He feels weak and terrible now, and as he lights up a cigarette, he shakes his head at himself. A thousand years ago, a thing like that might’ve killed him. He's lucky it didn't this time. 

The things he does for stupid _love_.

* * *

One evening, Niall suggests they go out back to London, to meet his friend Liam. They all decide to go—until the word _karaoke_ is mentioned. Zayn comes down with a swift and sudden case of the flu. Harry covers for him, casting a fever spell on him quick as a flash.

“Wow,” Niall says, checking the thermometer. “You’re over 101. No karaoke for you."

Zayn nods, lowering his eyes, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. “I feel proper awful.”

“Get in bed, then. I’ll make you some soup before we go.”

When Niall hurries off to the kitchen, Zayn glares at Harry. “You didn’t have to cast one so _high_ ,” he hisses in annoyance, cheeks flushed. “I really do feel like shit now, thanks.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to help!”

Zayn shakes his head at him. “Ever since you met Louis, your magic’s been out of control.”

“Wha—” Harry flushes deeply, tingling at the mere mention of Louis’ name. “What’re you on about?”

Zayn just points at him. “Go look in the mirror.”

Harry goes to the fireplace, looking in the mirror he hung up over it. Sure enough, he’s blushed so hard that even his curls are pink. He hears footsteps from the direction of Louis’ room and he gasps, trying to turn it back, but the very thought of Louis has his hair darkening to a rosy-gold. Harry squeaks, panicked.

He flaps his hands helplessly at Zayn. "What do I do?" he whispers

“Here, quick!” Zayn says, tossing him one of the throw blankets patterned with angels that Harry’s great-great-aunt Delilah left behind, smelling vaguely of moth balls.

Harry catches it in mid-air and pulls it on over his head, clutching it under his chin like he’s a nun just as Louis rounds the corner from the hallway into the room, wearing a black and white striped shirt and those Vans that Harry thinks are cute. He laughs when he sees Harry, his eyes crinkling up.

“If that’s your way of warding off sickness, it’s top form, Haz. You should come to karaoke like that.”

Harry and Zayn both laugh a little too loudly at that and Louis’ smile gets an uneasy edge to it as he looks between the two of them, like he’s missing some kind of private joke. He doesn’t say anything else, though, walking slowly to the kitchen where Niall is banging pots and pans around, singing along to the radio on the counter.

“See?” Zayn asks as soon as Louis is gone.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says, pulling the blanket off. He screws his face up with concentration, changing the curls back to their regular brown-and-honey. He throws the blanket at Zayn, resisting the urge to give him chickenpox in addition to that fever.

“You’re meaner now, too,” Zayn grumbles and Harry rolls his eyes.

Still, he can’t shake the blush on his cheeks, not even at karaoke all the way through belting out The Darkness’ _“I Believe In A Thing Called Love.”_

* * *

Things escalate on Harry’s day off.

He wakes early by nature, leaving his room with a wide yawn, running a hand through his curls. He stops dead in the hallway when he sees Niall slumped against the wall. From down the hall in the loo, he can hear running water, a voice rising over it.

Harry stares for all of one moment, blank-faced—and then he goes back into his room. He comes out with his iPhone and his earbuds in, putting on Joni Mitchell. Jamming his iPhone into the waistband of his pants, he pads down the hall, stopping beside Niall.

“Ni?” He shakes him gently.

Niall opens his eyes sleepily. “Oh. Hi, Haz.” Harry can just hear him over his music, the singing coming from the bathroom muffled. His eyelashes flutter closed again, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Can you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“The music. It’s _beautiful_.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilts Niall’s head back, peering at his eyes in the light. His pupils are pinned, his eyelids heavy, as though he’s on the verge of sleep. He leans into Harry’s touch, butting his head against Harry’s palm as though he’s a cat desperate to be petted.

“How long have you been out here, Niall?”

He shrugs listlessly. “Dunno.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” Holding one hand over Niall’s eyes, he swirls the other through the air, conjuring up a pair of bright pink earmuffs. Gently, he settles them over Niall’s head, steering him back to his room.

“It’s _so_ beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Yes, Niall. Go back to sleep.”

“What?”

“Sleep. You know, that thing you do at night?”

“Why?”

Harry leans in and whispers, “You’re dreaming.” He claps his hands together and a cloud of puffy white snow flies out, settling over Niall’s skin and shoulders, turning the tips of his dyed blond hair a glimmering ivory. His eyelids flutter closed and he slumps in a surprisingly graceful arc. Harry only just manages to catch him with magic before he hits the floor, levitating him back to bed. The earmuffs and last glittering snowflakes will vanish in a few hours. Harry hopes, anyway.

When Niall is tucked in, clutching a stuffed bear that’s patterned with the Irish flag, Harry retreats to the corridor once more. The water has stopped then and Harry pulls out his earbuds, frowning delicately at the closed door. He hears the humming, the water of the sink running, the gargling. He waits.

When Zayn comes out wearing a pair of Batman pants and a black tank, inky black hair still damp, he sees Harry and stops in his tracks. This is not the first time Harry has been waiting for him, as disapproving an expression on his face as is possible for him to muster, which isn't much honestly, since he's the witch equivalent of Snow White.

“Shit," Zayn says. "Did I—”

Harry nods. “Niall.”

Zayn’s eyes widen and he takes a step forward, one hand clenching desperately on empty air. “Is he all right?”

“Yeah, I got him. Made him think he dreamt it. He probably won’t even remember it.”

Zayn’s shoulders sag with obvious relief. “Fuck. I didn’t even realize—”

“I know. You just have to be careful.”

The stairs creak from behind them and Harry spins, almost levitating, catching himself at the last second. Louis is standing there, eyes narrowed, but whether it’s tiredness or suspicion, Harry can’t tell. He suddenly feels guilty, caught in the act—but the act of what, he’s not sure. All he knows is that he hate, hate, _hates_ hiding things from Louis.

“Morning,” he says, glancing between them. He always seems much younger when he’s tired, surly and boyish; Harry loves it, loves his pouts and scowls. He’s like an angry little pixie and Harry just wants to ruffle his hair and kiss him until he smiles again, unable to help himself.

“Hiya Lou,” Harry says brightly. Zayn scurries off, his door closing quietly behind him.

“Anything wrong?” Louis asks, gaze following Zayn. There’s a curious look on his face and Harry doesn’t like the way it seems as though gears are turning in his head.

“Nope!” He says too quickly. “Want to have breakfast with me?” When a slight shadow passes over Louis’ face, he revises. “You don’t have to eat in front of me, I’m just wondering if you’ll come with?”

Finally, Louis grins, his teeth seeming particularly pointy. “Deny myself the pleasure of your company? Never.”

If Niall remembers it, he gives no indication. They never mention that morning again.

* * *

A banging downstairs wakes Harry one night, straight out of a deep sleep. He’d been dreaming about wolves. One had been running in circles around him, howling incessantly. Harry had been about to throw a snowball at it to shut it up when he woke, eyes snapping open.

He lays awake, heart racing, not sure what had caused his sudden anxiety when he hears it again—someone is definitely moving downstairs.

He sits up. His first thought is _BURGLAR,_ which perhaps makes sense, when one considers his life in London. But then he remembers they live in a tiny town in the English countryside now and that burglars are just about as nonexistent as…well, large populations of people. His next thought is the more rational one, the one that needs no explanation at all: _Louis_.

Sliding out of bed, he creates a little globe of light that spins cheerfully while he grabs a pair of pants from the floor. He tiptoes to the door, opening it quietly and inching out. He leans out over the railing of the stairs but it’s dark down there, the only light the swath of the half-moon slicing in through the window curtains, coloring the floor in a pattern of silver. He doesn’t see anyone, doesn’t hear anybody.

He levitates, feet just barely lifted off the stairs, floating down to the first floor. He lands softly, one foot before the other. The only sound he can discern besides his own breathing is the cricket song from outside. They _chirp! chirp!_ , calling to each other through the dark. Harry crosses the room, looking out the blinds of one window, listening to them. He closes his eyes, smiling to himself—

Abruptly, the sound stops.

His eyes open. If he hadn’t just been listening to them, he might never have noticed, but just like that, the night is so silent that Harry can practically feel it pressing in on him, digging its thumbs into his eyes. He steps back from the window, staring, when there’s a banging from his left.

He jumps, clapping a hand over his mouth to shield the squeak that comes out against his will. It’s the side door in the kitchen; someone shuts it just as loudly, with a foot, no doubt. In the moonlight, Harry can see the slight form, hear the light footsteps. Louis. He’s got the freezer open, looking inside; he’s wearing a jacket and his shoes, and Harry frowns. _Where was he?_

Harry snaps his finger instinctively and the overhead light in the living room glows to life. When he sees the light, Louis spins around, slamming the freezer shut and scowling. His eyes light on Harry; his expression changes from one end of the spectrum to the other, melting into elation. His teeth look as sharp as ever. “Harry! I didn’t even hear you come down.”

 _That’s because I was floating_. He wants so badly to say it, but holds his tongue. “Erm, yeah. I can be quite sneaky when I want to be, y’know.”

“Uh-huh.” Something about Louis’ tone, playful and light, says he doesn’t believe a single word of it. “What are you doing awake, Curly? I thought you had work in the morning.”

“I did. I mean, I do.” He stares, eyes roving over Louis. There’s something different about him. He’s smiling widely, eyes crinkled, which isn’t entirely unusual as he’s one of the sunniest people that Harry’s ever met. But there’s something…else. It’s almost as if he’s _too_ happy, which seems ridiculous to Harry even as he thinks it, but the thought is there all the same.

It’s not just that, though. Normally, there’s somewhat of a pallor to Louis’ skin, like he never gets quite enough sleep and isn’t eating enough. There are shadows under his eyes and sometimes, when Harry looks at him when he doesn’t realize he’s watching, there’s almost an…oldness to Louis when he’s lost in thought, like he’s staring down the back of a thousand years. He just seems so _tired_.

But now, there’s a _flush_ in his cheeks and his eyes are glimmering. He seems more upbeat, perkier. When Louis said he was a night owl, he really wasn’t kidding; he seems half-dead during the day by comparison, sluggish and peaky.

“You all right?” Louis asks. His eyebrows are raised and Harry wonders how long he’s been staring.

He nods quickly. “Yeah! You just…I dunno, you seem different.”

Louis’ smile softens into something that’s just theirs and Harry’s suddenly all too aware of the heart in his chest, the loud pounding filling up all the space in his ears. It’s so loud, he almost misses it when Louis says, “I’m just happy to see you.”

Harry smiles back, slowly. He never smiles at Zayn or Niall this way, at least, not that he knows of. It’s his Louis smile. “You just saw me a few hours ago.”

“I’m always happy to see you, you nutter.”

Harry laughs.

Louis throws something into the garbage pail and wanders over towards Harry, framed in the light. When Harry sees him close-up, he’s enthralled for all of one second—before he squeaks, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Lou!”

Louis’ eyes widen. “What?”

Harry points. “You’ve got blood, just there!”

Louis swipes a finger at the corner of his mouth, looking at it in the light. “Oh, yeah. Look at that!” When that does nothing to assuage Harry, he shrugs easily, still smiling. “I had a bloody nose earlier. Must’ve missed some.” He pulls a tissue out of the pocket of his jacket, wiping off his mouth and finger. “There. Better?”

Slowly, Harry lowers his hands. “I think so.”

“Well, be sure, will you?” Louis edges so close that Harry can individually count every eyelash fluttered down, fanning over his cheeks. He seems positively feverish; he’s emitting such warmth that Harry’s skin goes flush just from their nearness. _Normally so cold,_ Harry thinks drowsily, intoxicated by Louis’ presence. He has to remind himself why they’re standing so close and he lets his gaze travel all across Louis’ skin, memorizing each line of laughter, each secret freckle, each tiny mark distinguishing it as Harry’s favorite face, separate from all others in the world.

“I’m sure,” Harry says, not realizing he’s whispered until Louis smiles.

“Thanks,” he whispers back. He smells odd, like Louis, of course, his mixture of soft cinnamon and musk, but there’s something else now, something sharp and tangy. Almost...metallic. It’s not that Harry doesn’t like it, it’s just strange. Foreign.

“You know something?” Harry asks, partly because he’s fascinated but also because he doesn’t want Louis to step back just yet. He’s confused, intrigued, and in love. He wants to stand this close to Louis forever, wants to count every one of his eyelashes, wants to become acquainted with every ridge of color in his irises.

“Hm?”

“You’ve got this little mole on your forehead. It’s cute.”

“Yeah?” Louis frowns a little, a crease appearing between his eyes. “I don’t remem—” He stops, clearing his throat. “Realize,” he says. “I didn’t realize.”

“Really? You’ve never noticed?”

Louis shrugs. “I feel like…I’ve always had it, I’ve never paid much attention to it.”

“It’s cute,” Harry says.

“You said that already.” The frown fades, replaced by another soft smile. Harry feels something brush against his hand; he looks down to see one of Louis’ fingers curled around his. “What else?” he asks quietly.

“Erm, well. You have this little cluster of freckles.” Harry blushes as he says, “It’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?” Louis licks his lips. “Where?”

Harry raises his arm, touching the pad of one finger to a spot on Louis’ cheek, just to the right of his nose. His skin is warm and so soft that Harry’s afraid he’ll go right through him. “Here.”

Seized by the impulse, Harry leans down slightly, pressing his lips to it. He lingers there for a moment, a lifetime in all honesty, but when he does lean back, his lips are tingling with the heat of Louis’ skin.

Louis’ eyes are open. Harry’s sure that he’ll never be able to concretely call them by one color; they are just too many at once, shades of green and blue mingling with gray, the sky after a storm, the sea off the coast and the rocks splashed bright by the waves.

“You—” he starts to say.

A door opens upstairs, spilling a block of light down onto the landing. They both look towards the stairs, watching as a shadow passes by; another door opens and closes a moment later.

“Niall,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “He drinks too much, he’s up half the night pissing.”

Harry laughs, but it’s a little tense after all that. The toilet flushes, doors open and close. The house goes silent again, as if none of it ever happened, but Harry won’t ever forget this moment with the two of them locked inside of it, even if he’s chiding himself for it now. _That was dumb of me,_ he thinks. _Why did I kiss him? Why did I—_

“Anyway,” Louis says, his voice a touch softer now. “You should probably head back to bed. It’s late.”

 _I don’t want to._ The words come crawling up, but he doesn’t even have a chance to say them. Louis seems to just know; Harry can tell by the grin that flits across his lips.

“Yes, I know,” he says, as if Harry had said the words aloud. “But you have work in the morning.”

“Fine," he says, sighing. "Tuck me in?”

This time, Louis laughs and it’s completely genuine. “’Course. Come on.” He takes Harry’s hand and, squeezing gently, leads him back up the stairs. 

* * *

Just two days later, before Harry goes to bed, he finds Louis standing in the middle of the sitting room, peering intently at the framed photo of them on the mantel. He looks confused.

“All right, Lou?”

“Yeah, just…” He frowns. “Is that _really_ what I look like?”

Harry laughs. “What do you mean?”

“I just…” Louis straightens, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure, doesn’t it seem strange to you?”

Harry joins him, looking at the picture. True enough, Louis is somewhat blurred and brighter than the rest of them in the gleam of the sun, as if someone’s hand shook taking the picture. It’s hard to see his face; the only things really clear to Harry are his hair, eyes, and smile. Harry always assumed it was Louis’ all-white clothing that produced the flare of light, but it seems different now that he's looking at it. Stranger. It looks almost like a lens flare from something shining back at Niall’s iPhone, the edges of the aurora ridged and sharp.

“Yeah. Were you wearing something shiny that reflected the sun back?”

“Maybe that’s it,” Louis says, nodding. “The zipper of my coat or something.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Except, it didn’t. There was something digging around in the back of Harry’s head, something he was meant to realize. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but that itching feeling wouldn’t go away.

“I wouldn’t take it as gospel,” he says.

Louis glances at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You look, y’know. Good. All the time.” He laughs nervously, wondering if there will _ever_ be a time when he’s not a completely lovestruck _wanker_ around Louis. “Great, even.”

Louis tilts his head, eyes trailing back to the photo. “Yeah? You think so?” There’s some kind of hopeful innocence in that tone, and it strikes Harry right in the chest: He has no idea that he looks as good as he does. He has no concept of it, has no idea of the effect he has on Harry simply by being _around_ him.

Harry wants to laugh at the madness of that. Because how could he not know? “Of course, Lou. You’re dead fit. Gorgeous.”

Louis laughs. “All right, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“No, I’m serious!” He grabs his wrist, pulls him back so they can stand in front of the mirror over the fireplace. “Look, you—”

The strangest thing happens then, and for a witch, that’s saying something. Harry was sure, looking back on it later, that he had a grip on Louis. Not a tight one, sure, but enough of a grip that Louis couldn’t have just slipped away. But he did. That’s exactly what happened and Harry isn’t sure how, not in the slightest, not with all his mastery of magic.

Louis seems to _melt_ out of Harry’s hand, his fingers closing on empty air, and when he turns his head to look, Louis is all the way across the sitting room, like he’d been there all along. His eyes are wider now, his face particularly pale as his eyes dart over Harry’s face and down to his hand.

“Lou?” Harry asks, so confused that he feels like he’s moving in slow-motion, trickling backwards through time.

“Sorry,” Louis says, sounding vaguely breathless. “I, um…I thought I saw a spider.”

“What?” Harry whips around, looking for the offending arachnid so he can put it outside. “Where?”

“It’s gone now. Went behind one of the bookshelves, I think.” He smiles. “Anyway, you should probably get up to bed. You have work tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, it’s an early one.” Harry is still frowning when he says goodnight to Louis, wondering when that work excuse is going to go out of style.

He clutches his stuffed pumpkin when he’s meant to be sleeping, but he tosses and turns, thinking about that odd moment—and how many more there have been just like it.

Because this happens all the time, doesn’t it? There’s _something_ about Louis, some mystery that Harry just can’t crack, and it’s becoming clearer to him now. For every normal moment they have together—if he can call anything in their house normal—there is another one where something weird happens, where Louis pulls away from him just the slightest and Harry is left having no idea what they’re doing, where they stand, and what the _hell_ is going on.

He’s about to fall asleep when he realizes. The lens flare. It can’t have been something shining back at the camera, because Louis had one of Zayn’s umbrellas. He was completely hidden from the sun. How could the sun shine off of something and reflect it if he was shaded from it? And how could Niall’s hand shake when the phone was on a tripod?

 _Something is going on here,_ Harry thinks, not very tired anymore. He lays on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. He crushes his stuffed pumpkin to his chest, holding on tight.

_Who, exactly, is Louis Tomlinson?_


	2. spring fling

Zayn goes home to visit family. Niall and Louis don’t seem to notice that he doesn’t take any clothes with him.

He comes back in the evening two weeks later looking particularly radiant, tanned and content, his feet bare. He smells like seaweed and salt, and he brings Harry a basketful of things he found in the ocean, in case he ever needs them for his spells. Harry thanks him with a kiss on the cheek.

Across the room, there’s a crash.

They both look over. Louis is looking at them, his hands empty. There’s a broken dish at his feet. “Sorry,” he says, voice mild. “Slipped.”

 “Oh!” Harry hands the basket back to Zayn and hurries over. He snaps his finger before he can help himself and the cupboard in the hall rustles, something banging against the door.

Louis shoots a suspicious glance towards the hall, frowning, and Harry realizes what he’s done.

 “Um, never mind!” he says quickly, panicking, and the cupboard goes silent.

“Never mind what?” Louis asks. Harry thinks there’s _almost_ a glimmer in Louis’ eyes, a smirk playing around the edges of his mouth. _Is everything so funny to him_?

“Um, never mind that, Zayn,” Harry says, looking back at him. “Can you take that up to my room, please?”

“What’s in there, anyway?” Louis asks as Zayn nods and leaves the room, bare feet tracking sand up the stairs.

“In the basket? Uh.” He hates lying to Louis, hates it almost as much as he hates sleeping upstairs when he _knows_ Louis is awake and functioning, having an entire life without him at night. He goes to the cupboard, pulling out the broom and dustpan with his own hands. They wriggle in his hands excitedly, and he glares at them, shushing them as quietly as he can.

“Flowers,” he says, shutting the cupboard with his shoulder. “Zayn always brings me flowers and herbs, things like that. From his mum’s garden.”

“From his mum’s garden.” Louis lets out a breath. “Right.”

Harry looks at Louis with concern, his arms falling somewhat. “Is everything okay?”

“Hm? Of course.” Louis runs a nonchalant hand through his coiffed hair, brushing it away from his forehead. He’s had it cut recently—by himself or someone else, Harry really doesn’t know—and it looks different, sticking up in soft spikes where his hand has moved through it, looking messier…younger. Harry really likes it, but it is, after all, Louis; he would like him in just about anything. Even a mohawk, if he wanted. Probably.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, trying not to grin at the image of Louis with a mohawk, because they’re having a moment, a serious one, and it’s important to him.

“Yes, Harold,” Louis says smoothly, reaching for the broom. “Here, let me give you a hand.” 

Harry lets him take it, kneeling down to hold the dustpan. He worries his lip between his teeth, wondering what could be going on. He knows there isn’t _nothing_ wrong, he can feel it in the air when he reaches out tentatively with his magic. It’s like a lightning strike has gone off, leaving all this stormy energy behind; he can feel the tension in Louis when he stands over him. To say that Harry is unhappy about that is an understatement, to say the least. 

“I guess Niall was right,” Harry says, looking up at Louis with a smile. “About you being useless in the kitchen.”

Louis grins quickly. “Not everything out of his mouth is absolute shit.” He finishes sweeping the last of the shards into the dustpan and Harry picks it up.

He’s so off-kilter thanks to Louis’ smile that he isn’t paying attention, and a large piece of the plate slides back in the dustpan, scraping across his hand. He winces, setting the dustpan down on the table quickly, bringing his hand up to inspect it in the light. “Ow,” he murmurs.

There’s a line on the back of his hand where it sliced him; he watches as blood slowly beads to the surface.

“What happened?” Louis asks. His voice sounds odd. Quiet. Unlike him.

Harry looks over at him and he backs up instinctively. Louis is standing strangely, his body too taught, straining, his hands curled into fists. He isn’t even looking at Harry.

“I…I dunno, I wasn’t looking and a piece got me.” He holds his hand out. “Look.”

Louis laughs tightly. “I’d really rather not.”

Harry laughs, too. Of all the people he knows, Louis does not seem the type to be squeamish. He seems so much older than them, like he’s seen and done it all, so why should a little blood bother him? “What,” he asks, giggling, “scared of a little blood?”

Louis turns slowly to look at him and Harry isn’t expecting it at all, completely caught off-guard when Louis’ stare pierces him to the wall. Louis’ eyes have always been the prettiest array of colors, always lit from the inside with laughter, with curiosity. There’s always been a visible oldness to them, but Harry’s used to that. People used to tell him all the time that he had an “old soul”; it’s quite a common expression.

But now… There’s something dark in his eyes, some shadow there, like suddenly Harry is looking into the soul of a tiger, the eyes of cobra, something deadly and predatory looking back at him. He looks—well, he looks to Harry as if he’s _hungry_.

 _But we just ate an hour ago_ , Harry thinks irrationally, his mind racing. A little whisper chimes in almost at once from somewhere in the recesses of his brain, some secret place where the truth lives. _But he doesn’t eat. He never eats._

Harry swallows, keeping his eyes on Louis. That’s what they say to do, right? Like if you’re about to be attacked by a bear in America or something. Show no fear, don’t run, stare them down. He can do that.

_I hope._

“Hardly,” Louis says, grinning. There’s something sharp to it, an edge. He crosses the few feet between them, reaching for Harry’s hand. “Here. Let me see.”

Harry holds out his hand to Louis.

Louis takes his fingers, looking down at his reddened skin. The blood makes the scrape shine. “Oh, that’s not so bad," Louis murmurs. "What’s that saying? ‘Kiss it better’?” 

Harry watches, stunned, as Louis lowers his face to Harry’s hand. He presses a kiss to the cut. Harry’s mouth opens in surprise as Louis’ lips brush across the length of the scrape, coating them red and shining with Harry’s blood. His gaze flicks up, eyes locking on Harry’s as he lifts away just enough to lick his lips—and then he’s licking the blood off Harry’s hand. He gasps as Louis’ tongue slowly laves the blood away, his breath cool across Harry’s wet skin. He doesn’t look away from Harry once.

Heat melts through Harry so fast that his head spins, his vision brightening with dizziness. Desire shoots straight through him to his cock like an arrow, turning his knees to water. On the counter, his record player switches on of its own accord, blaring out swing music. The wicks of several candles flare to life. 

Louis looks at the record player for all of one second, eyes flicking back to Harry. His grin widens and Harry's heart skips about a hundred beats. "Lou—" he starts. 

But then there are footsteps on the porch outside, the jingling of keys. The door bangs open, the rustling of grocery bags filling the living room.

Harry turns to look and just like that, Louis is gone. He's holding his hand out to empty air. 

Harry hears Louis’ door slam from across the sitting room. He stares, breathing hard, utterly dazed. How did he move so fast? “That’s not…” he whispers, shaking his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Christ,” Niall says loudly, struggling with the groceries, kicking the door shut with a foot. “Service tonight was a madhouse, someone get the kettle on!”

Before he can barge into the kitchen and see Harry like—like _this_ —Harry grabs the dustpan, dumps the pieces of broken plate into the garbage and practically runs down the hall to the cupboard, throwing the dustpan and broom inside. He hides behind the door, shaking, touching his hand over and over, wiping it off on his sleeve. _What was that, what was that_ , he thinks, his mind a star going supernova, exploding into nothingness.  _What_ the fuck _was that?_ He settles himself with magic, straightening his shirt and taking some of the flush from his cheeks. 

Taking a deep breath, he closes the cupboard door, looking out at Niall as he strolls back into the kitchen. Niall is switching his record player off, muttering about Harry's weird taste in music. 

“Hey. Work was mad?”

“Yeah, I’m knackered. Zayn home?”

Harry nods. “Just. Should be in his room.”

“Cool. I’m going to make a cuppa, you want?”

He nods again. Tea with a very strong calming spell in it is exactly what he needs, because that—whatever it was—was out of control. Zayn was right, he’s losing it. He looks over at the candles and the record player, shaking his head.

He needs to meditate. _A lot_.

* * *

Louis slams his door shut, pacing wildly, hands clenching desperately at his sides. _What is the matter with you,_ he rages at himself, digging his nails into his palms. _You haven’t lost control like that in centuries!_

But god. _God_. That’s the only word he can think of to describe that tiny, infinitesimal taste of Harry. He can still taste him in his mouth, can still feel the edges of his magic clinging to his lips like a thin sheen of cherry-flavored chapstick, only it’s Harry, and the flavor is… _everything_. He licks his lips over and over, unable to stop himself, chasing down what’s left of that taste.

Because _god_. That _was_ Harry, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just his essence, just the idea of him, it was literally and actually him. Blood is the life force, it’s the electricity, but it’s more than that; it’s the river of genetic make-up, the twining branches of DNA, _his_ DNA, all the little puzzle pieces that make him who he is, that decide the exact shade of his hair and the long, lanky legs and the dimple in his cheek. There is no one else’s like it, no one else’s that even comes close. It is, in its purest form, Extract of Harry.

_And I almost…_

He lets the thought hang there, not wanting to follow it. Once, he had been an animal about it, composed of pure desire, ever-devouring like fire. All he knew was the blinding rage, the destructive constant _hunger_ and he followed it wherever it led him. They were food to him, once. They were nothing more than sustenance, something to be used and discarded once they fulfilled their purpose. That changed as the centuries began to stretch, as he began to witness their capacities for love and laughter, as he watched entire generations grow from children to elders, only to do the same with their children and their children, on and on, the cycle of life and death and birth continuing before his eyes in a wheel of blazing color and light. Everything changed for him in the past few hundred years and now, now he can’t bear to see them the way he once did, is both ashamed and repelled for having done so. 

He’s shaken, plain and simple. It’s been years since he wanted to taste someone, and Harry is…

His door opens a mere moment later and he whirls, panicked, imagining it’s Harry with a bruised expression on his face. Instead, standing in the doorway, is Zayn. With a look of utter serenity, he slowly closes the door, standing with his back to it and his hands out in front of him. A peaceful gesture, one Louis recognizes. He narrows his eyes.

“What was that?” Zayn asks, voice low. He sounds mild and curious, but there’s an undercurrent there, Louis can feel it thrumming on Zayn’s skin. Anger. Fear.

He puts on his best haughty face, his loftiest Former-Life voice. “What was what? Really Zayn, you must be more specific.”

Zayn frowns. He studies Louis for a long moment and Louis actually feels uncomfortable, pinned to the spot by Zayn’s accusing gaze. There’s something about his eyes—they’re _off_ , but he’s never been able to explain it in more terms than that, only aware of a sense of perturbation that he’s always felt, but never wanted to mention. Zayn is, after all, Harry’s best mate. He wouldn’t dream of coming between them. And yet, there’s always been an unspoken wedge there, despite the camaraderie the four of them formed. It’s an…itch, a stinging annoyance that was always under the surface, and Louis can feel it pricking within him now, demanding to be scratched, rising in him with the sharp cadences of his anger at himself.

Zayn almost seems like he’s…well, like he’s _waiting_. But for what? Louis opens his mouth slightly, scenting the air like a cat. It’s just the smallest part of his lips, just a quick inhalation, but Zayn’s stare sharpens, honing in on it like he knows. Louis can’t even focus on that because there’s a rush of Zayn’s smell in his mouth, twirling through his senses, and it’s so pungent it nearly overwhelms him. Zayn reeks of the sea, of underwater secrets, their depths too dark for Louis to fathom.

And just like that, he gets it, like fingers snapping right in front of his face, the proverbial lightbulb. Just like that, a flip is switched.

Zayn must see the realization in Louis’ eyes because he nods. “You think you’re the only person in this house who can smell blood? That’s just conceited, mate.”

Zayn's a siren. He's a bloody siren. He's a creature of seduction, of mischief and destruction, of the islands spattered across the oceans all over the world. 

Louis stares. That’s all he can do. “You—”

“Yeah.”

“I thought—”

“Nah.”

“But you—”

“Nope.” Zayn is flat-out grinning now, a quick flash of perfect teeth, and it’s the most annoying thing Louis’ seen in a while.

Louis scowls. He’s amazed—and quite frankly, _very_ miffed—that it’s taken him this long to figure out. Really, in all his centuries of life, how thick can he be?

“I thought they were all extinct,” is the only thing he can really properly say.

Zayn’s smile vanishes, his expression becoming more thoughtful. He shakes his head. “No, not yet, anyway. Hiding mostly. Definitely not extinct, though.”

Louis tilts his head, raising a hand to twirl it slowly through the air; it’s how he works through things. “So…when you say you went to visit your family…

“Mean the ocean, yeah.”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m…well, I’m not quite sure how to react. Give me a moment.” He closes his eyes, hands clapped together like he’s praying, pressing them to his lips as he thinks back. Zayn. A siren. Okay. As a vampire, this really shouldn’t be so strange for him, he’s met loads of allegedly supernatural creatures, but he never imagined he’d have not simply two or three, but _four_ living in the same house. It’s enough to make him giddy, on the verge of mad laughter.

 _Focus_ , he tells himself sternly, clearing his throat. He sees all Zayn’s umbrellas and parasols in his mind, his constant nearby presence of water bottles in varying states of emptiness, his weirdly large collection of Aquaman shirts. It’s almost so obvious that Louis is growing steadily more annoyed at himself for not noticing it sooner. Zayn spends an ungodly time in the bathroom, whether showering in the mornings or taking long soaking baths at night, where sometimes he’ll just take his dinner up there with a book and they won’t see him again for hours.

 _What else?_ Louis thinks. The karaoke. He hates it, can’t stand it, always either becomes mysteriously sick or flat-out refuses whenever Niall wants to go. Louis should’ve known. And then there was that strange time with Niall…

Suddenly everything makes alarming sense. Louis opens his eyes, lowering his hands. “Okay. I just have two questions at this point.”

Zayn eyes him warily. “All right.”

“Wait, three questions.”

“Okay.”

“First, how old are you?”

“Older than Niall, but younger than you. A _lot_ younger than you. Next.”

Louis frowns at that—age jokes _aside,_ that could be any number between two hundred and one thousand, so it’s really not helpful—but he allows it for the time being. He has a feeling that Zayn didn’t come to his room to discuss his supernaturalism. At least, not in depth. 

“Right,” he says, “what about me? How’d you know?”

“You’re joking, right?” Zayn laughs. “You sleep all day, never leave the house if it’s daytime, and you don’t eat. Anybody could put that together.” He shrugs. “But honestly, it was this.” He pulls a small cylindrical item out of his pocket, holding it up. It looks like a sweetie wrapped in yellow plastic wrap. To anyone else, it might appear to be a cough drop, but they both know better.

“Found it in your trousers when I was doing the wash up. Can’t mistake that smell, not even after all these years.”

So. Zayn’s a vegetarian, too. In a manner of speaking, anyway.

“Where’d you get it?” he asks, looking at it curiously.

“Blood sweeties? I have them shipped internationally," Louis says. "Peru. They’re goat, I think.”

“That’s…kind of disgusting.”

Louis shrugs imperiously. “One does what one can.”

Zayn pockets the candy, just like Louis knew he would. “What was the last question?”

“Oh. Right, what did you bring Harry?”

" _That's_ your last question?"

"You said you visited your family. I'm curious."

“They were things from my mum. I wasn’t hiding anything about that, Lou. Whenever I go home, I bring him stuff from the ocean. Seashells, plants, things like that. He likes them."

So he wasn’t giving Harry flowers, after all. That makes Louis smile. It means there’s still an opportunity for _him_ to bring Harry flowers, though there is that pesky sun to work around. He’ll work something out, he’s sure of it. He’s nothing if not determined.

 “Listen,” Zayn says seriously, “I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way, but we need to talk. About Harry.”

That freezes Louis’ wonder and workings in place. Pieces come to him, fragments: The blood, the rapid _patter-patter-patter_ of Harry’s pulse and the answering call inside Louis, the hunger, the _hunter_. He feels nauseous now, the taste of Harry’s blood turning bitter on his tongue. Too far, too fast. The sick feeling rises and he has to turn away, press a shaking a hand over his lips.

“Mm-hm.”

“I just want to say one thing, mate, and then I’ll go.”

Louis nods, waiting.

“Harry…he isn’t like other guys. He isn’t like anyone.”

“I know he’s a witch,” Louis manages, lowering his hand. “I saw him. His magic.” He shakes his head again. “The magic _is_ him, I’ve seen who he is. On the inside.”

“Good. You should let him know; he worries that it’ll scare you.”

Louis laughs softly. “But _I’m_ the scary one.”

“He doesn’t know that, does he?” When Louis is silent, Zayn goes on. “Didn’t think so. He’s mates with me because we’ve been through a lot together and I understand who he is. You and me, we’re different. We’re predators. We’re deadly. It’s who we are. But that isn’t Harry. Harry is…” He struggles to find the words. “He’s softness. He’s gentle, he’s _good_. He creates things. He’s the proper opposite of us, and that just makes it easier to bruise him.”

Zayn lets out a breath. “Witches…they fall in love really easily.” Louis has another memory, a flash of it, a boy with brown curls shining to warm gold in the sun, a boy with daisies in his hair, their pedals silky soft and cradling his forehead. “It consumes them. They’re like hawks or whatever, they love for life. Do you get me?”

Louis nods.

“So I’m telling you, if you hurt him, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“I understand.”

“Louis.” He turns, looking at Zayn. He’s never felt particularly cowardly before until now, facing Harry’s best friend. Something flashes in his dark eyes as he says, “Believe me when I say that I will drown anyone who hurts him.”

“Have you ever had to before?”

“Maybe. That’s not the point here.”

“No, it isn’t,” Louis muses. “You don’t have to worry, Zayn.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If I do end up hurting him, you’ll have to come get me from the bottom of the ocean, because I will have already drowned myself.”

Zayn nods. Satisfied, he turns to leave—but stops. Looks around. He surveys the blank beige walls of Louis’ room with a wrinkled nose. “This is awful,” he says, shaking his head. “Pick something new and I’ll paint it for you.”

From threats to DIY décor. Louis knew there was a reason he liked Zayn, beyond the obvious of him being Harry’s friend. If nothing else, at least he’s honest. 

When Zayn closes the door behind him, Louis stands there for a long time. He eventually moves to the window, looking out through the slats of the blinds, watching. He can see the dried, dead bushes out front along the steps moving stiffly in the breeze, he can see rabbits hopping over on the hill between the house and the woods, he can hear the crickets out there and an owl, sitting on a high branch among the treeline, its yellow eyes finding him across the stretch of distance like it knows.

He returns to his earlier line of thought, spurred even further on by Zayn’s cryptic warnings.

He can’t let himself get too close, not when he’s already let himself taste Harry. He’s…well, different. Precious. As much as it might actually kill him, the truth of the matter is, this path is simply too dangerous for Louis to follow.

He’s going to have to stay away.

* * *

A door opens downstairs and Harry almost faints, his heart jumping into his throat. To his surprise, however, Zayn comes strolling through the sitting room, emerging from the hallway towards Louis’ room. That makes Harry pause, frowning. What was he doing down there? What was he doing down where—

“Here ya go,” Niall says, sliding a mug to Harry; it overshoots and some spills over the rim, splashing on the table. Harry rolls his eyes at him.

“Zayn! How’re yeh, mate? How was your family?”

Zayn blushes at Niall’s exuberance, smiling. “Good, Ni. They liked hearing about you three.”

“Yeah? Think we could meet them someday?”

Harry snorts and Zayn shoots him a glance. To Niall, he says, “Um. Maybe?” He rubs his neck, yawning. “I dunno, it’s kind of a long trip.”

“Hey, no yawning, we still have to finish Orphan Black. Here.” Niall hands Zayn his cuppa, reaching into the cupboard for another mug. He pours some tea, dumping in a hideous amount of milk and sugar inside, taking a giant slurp as he does. Zayn sips at his politely, trying not to make a face at how intensely and disgustingly sweet it is.

Niall and Zayn argue about Orphan Black, laughing and moving around the kitchen, throwing dishtowels at each other as Niall pokes around in the refrigerator, hauling out vegetables, throwing a pot of water on the stove. Even though they all ate earlier, Niall’s entire life, of course, revolves around food and he can’t resist making _something_. It's how they hash out their days, how they bond. Harry loves it. 

Niall gets Zayn to hand him things and they chatter back and forth, but Harry stops listening. Absently, he raises his hand to look at it, eyeing the cut. It’s not bleeding anymore, but there’s still an angry red mark left behind. He brushes a finger over it; he can feel the skin knit itself back together in a swirl of magic. He looks up briefly to make sure Niall didn’t see anything, but he’s currently got his hands full of bean sprouts and seems altogether too busy to notice.

Harry drains the last of his tea, sliding quickly from the room before they’ll notice. They’re still laughing and going after each other as he winds slowly through the sitting room, one hand held loosely at his side, the one that wasn’t cut. The other he holds close to his chest, pressed palm down over his heart. It’s still beating way too fast for things to simply be normal, for them to be anything like what they might have been before.

He listens, cocking his head, but the only sound is something being sautéed in the kitchen, hissing warmly, and Niall’s loud boisterous laughter at Zayn’s quieter murmurs. If he didn’t know that Louis virtually _never_ leaves the house, he’d never even know he was there. He just floats in and out of Harry’s life, moving through, a passenger on a train, a ghost.

Harry thinks he should know better than to try and fix someone so mercurial in place, like a butterfly pinned to a board, losing everything it ever was in life—but he wants Louis to _stay_ , just for a moment. He wants Louis to stay with _him._

He catches a glimpse of the photo on the mantel. A rush of heat fills him as he sees Louis’ form, pressed close to him, and he can almost feel it all over again, the firm jut of his hipbone, that surreal coldness that seems to follow every one of Louis’ touches. There’s something there, something touching the edge of his mind, something that whispers, _this isn’t right, something’s going on._ But the question is, what?

Harry heads upstairs. He needs to meditate—but more importantly, he needs to keep his eyes open. 


	3. may flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied, i couldn't sleep so i finished editing chapter 3, here ya go :)  
> there's a little tiny bit of angst in this chapter, so just a heads up!!

_May_

Something very odd is going on in the house. Of that much, Harry is _certain_.

For starters, Niall _smells._ It’s something that creeps in over time, something he only notices once or twice a month, but it’s gotten so bad on those occasions that it’s all Harry can do not to kick him out and make him sleep outside. He spends so much time and energy using magic to fend off the stench that it’s getting to him, forcing him to drink homemade tonics with just about every meal.

It’s not that Niall doesn’t shower. Harry knows he does, he’s walked in on him enough times. Whereas a normal person might react with shock and alarm to being walked in on naked, Harry receives only a grin when Niall pops his around the shower curtain, shampoo trailing down the sides of his face. “Heya!” he says, disappearing back behind the curtain. “Don’t flush the toilet, will ya? It’s hard enough to get the water right as is, this piping’s ancient…”

Harry has learned that Niall is, in fact, _not_ a normal person so he gives up knocking altogether and waltzes in. The lines of privacy—or lack thereof—are clearly drawn, however. If the knob’s locked, Niall’s having a wank and/or wants to be alone; if the knob’s unlocked, the bathroom is open for business and he doesn’t mind who comes through, whether it’s to smoke a blunt or brush their teeth.

So Harry _knows_ he showers, he’s either in the room with Niall, or can hear him wailing along to his ancient pop music and disco, music that Harry not-so-secretly mouths along to. And it’s not that he’s just standing in there under the water not cleaning himself, there are clear products that he uses—though, whether or not they actually clean _anything_ is a hot topic of debate among the household, i.e. Niall and Harry, as he uses Axe and Old Spice, which Harry considers trash compared to his own homemade soaps made with herbs, flowers, and _love_ in them. But, as he’s told Niall, it’s fine—if he wants to smell like he’s rolled around in some pubescent chav’s dirty laundry, that’s his business. The point is, he reeks like a dog who’s just had a jaunt in either a neighbor’s garden or skip. Possibly both. That’s on top of his unfortunate deodorant brands, which are similar to his shampoo and body wash, and bad enough to begin with.

And then there’s the shedding. It’s the strangest thing. His hair isn’t that long, but it’s _everywhere_. The drain in the shower’s acting wonky? Niall’s fault. Zayn and Louis nearly killed themselves pouring some industrial-strength acid that they found in the cellar down it, the fumes causing their eyes and noses to stream. They were coughing all afternoon and the bathroom smelled like chemicals for an entire day afterwards; Harry had to do so many spells to fix both the energy and air in the house after, not to mention the pipes, that his body couldn’t handle it and he had to take a long nap without any warning.

When he told Zayn about it later, Zayn’s eyes widened. “You mean you _passed out_?”

“No, my body just forced me to take a nap. It’s like…” He screwed his face up, trying to think of an example. “Oh! When your computer shuts down for updates without telling you, and you still have your drawings and pictures open.”

Zayn blinked. “So you passed out,” he said calmly.

Harry considered that for a moment. “Well, I _guess_ —”

Zayn hit him several times with a pillow, shouting _what did he think he was playing at_ and _if he couldn’t learn to take it easy, he was going to have to answer to Zayn_ and the only thing that would calm him down was a swift, tight hug from Harry, a kiss on the cheek, and a solemn promise that he wouldn’t stress himself out so much next time. He started to inform Zayn that if he and Louis hadn’t tried to kill them all with a chemical gas, he wouldn’t have _had_ to intervene in the first place, but Zayn hit him with the pillow some more until he scuttled away, laughing.

The shedding transfers to the house, as well. There are days when Harry will be cleaning the sitting room and look down to see some kind of amorphous form on the carpet. Is it some kind of strange, light-colored spider? No, it’s a clump of Niall’s hair! At which point Harry will mutter to himself and clean it up, wondering how on earth someone with so little hair—compared to him—could possibly shed as much as he does.

To top it all off, Niall swears he can talk to Felix, Harry's cat—which is just rude, since Felix is supposed to be  _Harry's_ familiar, not some weird chef with excessive body odor. Every time Harry sees Felix following Niall around, he sticks his tongue out at him. Felix flicks his tail and ignores him imperiously. 

He never thought having flatmates other than Zayn would be so weird, but here he is.

It’s different with Zayn. Harry is used to Zayn’s little quirks, like talking to his pet fish Remus, carrying on entire conversations (he’s a nightmare at aquariums, he just can’t shut up and he gets stuck talking to sharks who are _the_ chattiest), not to mention his excessive need to salt everything, something to which Niall at first takes great offense, thinking Zayn’s having a go at his dishes and their seasoning, but Harry explains that Zayn just has a sodium deficiency. It sounds official enough that it shuts him right up. The hard thing to explain is the occasional shiny scale or two left behind in the bathtub, but luckily, Niall and Louis don’t notice those and Harry cleans them up before anyone is ever the wiser.

And Louis, well…is Louis.

Harry has decided to stop asking questions about him, because he either gets a runaround answer, or no answer at all. He’s come to the inevitable conclusion that Louis sleeps all day, goes out _some_ nights alone but to where, Harry has no idea, and when he comes back, he’s…different. Brighter. Like a newly-replaced lightbulb. Which isn’t to say he isn’t bright personality-wise the rest of the time, because he is.

Harry looks at it like he’s a phone. He does something to charge himself up once a month. But then the charge starts to wear off, and his looks begin to change. He gets sluggish, tired. He gets headaches if he’s awake during the day, migraines with eye pain that leave him shut up in his room. His skin gets paler, waxy, and there are dark circles under his eyes. His batteries run low. But, before anything drastic can happen, _bang_. He’s golden and shining once more. Harry thinks about drugs at first, but he thinks he'd notice if Louis was on drugs. Well, he might of, when they were spending more time with each other. 

Because the oddest thing about Louis—weird sleeping and eating habits, no job, and cycle of different looks _aside_ —is that he’s been spending less and less time with Harry. Not in an obvious way, of course. They still spend time with each other with the lads, watching telly and helping clean up and chatting about work. But they rarely have a sat down alone. Where Harry would stay up late to spend time with Louis, now Louis urges him to go to bed, to get all his rest. Where Louis would stay up into the morning, he now is in his room and sleeping when Harry wakes up for work, allegedly to “not distract him” when he’s trying to get ready. It’s caring, sure, in an odd way, but there’s still that nagging feeling that he does it because he’s trying to keep Harry at arm’s length.

And why would he do that? Why, out of all the strange things he does, would he do that?

It bothers Harry more than he wants to admit, but if there’s something going on with Louis, he respects him enough to give him space. So he does just that.

Everything changes the second week of May. Spring in Greater Gloomingshire is, despite its name, overwhelmingly pretty and serene. Harry’s not sure if it’s _actually_ sunny or if it’s a spell created around their town by great-great-aunt Delilah, but the days are sunny, warm and bright. The grasses of the hills leading down to the town proper are a brilliant emerald and as far as the eye can see, there are flowers in bloom: coltsfoot and cornflowers, foxglove and yarrow, violets and snowdrops. Harry can’t resist going out on one of the brightest days with a basket in hand, his sunhat trailing green and pink ribbons down his back.

However, there are some flowers that Harry doesn’t want to pick during the day—and that is what leads him out of the house one brisk evening, just as the sky darkens to black and the crickets come out to sing. He leaves a note on the refrigerator in case anyone wonders where he might be, and he ties his curls back with a ribbon, a basket looped over one arm. Out of sight from the front windows, he skips into the air, twirling and floating, leaping from one breezy current to the next. He looks up, floating on his back, picking out his favorite stars and constellations, waving to Hercules and Ursa Major.

What he’s looking for is night-blooming gladiolus, and he remembers seeing some spots in the woods where it might grow when he and Zayn went exploring after they first moved in. If he’s right, it would certainly make a lovely addition to his collection, especially since there’s a particularly finicky spell he wants to try that requires its petals.

He touches down just outside the woods, making his way inside on foot. It’s darker here, but he conjures a small globe of light that follows him around, humming quietly when it accidentally bumps into a tree trunk. He beckons it toward him and it floats ahead of him instead, lighting his way through the brush and undergrowth, over fallen logs fuzzy with moss. He wouldn’t have even needed it tonight, as it’s the full moon, but the trees are quite thick, blocking out the light.

Harry smells them before he sees them. They’re spicy and fragrant, fresh among the wet-leaf scent of the rest of the forest. He sees them a few minutes later in a clearing, their happy yellow heads tilted up toward the trees, reaching for the invisible moonlight overhead. He trills happily, jumping over a log and clambering through the clearing, kneeling down in the damp undergrowth, shivering as dew soaks into the knees of his jeans.

He bends down, cupping a hand around his mouth, leaning so low that his lips brush against one of the petals. “May I?”

He leans back, waiting. The flowers seem to bend and bob in his direction, and just like that, the ground beneath them seems to give way, their roots pulled free. Harry smiles, thanking them, helping them wind their way out of the dirt and into his hands. He’s found that it’s always better to ask a plant permission, that they’re more likely to work _with_ him—that way he doesn’t have to cut them, something he is staunchly opposed to.

He gathers up the flowers—he only needs about three or four—and is placing them gently in his basket when he hears a howl.

* * *

“Zayn!”

No answer, but if he’s not mistaken, the music in Zayn’s room has just gone up in volume. Louis scowls.

“Zayn, I know you can hear me! Get out here, you prick!”

There’s a split second pause during which the music stops and Zayn’s bedroom door is thrown open. He leans over the railing to look down at the first floor, his hair pushed back into a tiny bun, a pair of thick-framed glasses perched on his nose. “What’s up?”

“Seen Harry?”

Zayn frowns. “He’s not in?”

Louis shrugs. “Checked his room.”

Zayn peers down at Louis suspiciously for a moment before heading down the hall, knocking on Harry’s door. Louis rolls his eyes as he checks, verifying that Harry isn’t there. He returns, looking as perplexed as Louis feels.

“Great, now that we have proven that Harry is indeed _not_ in his room…”

Zayn makes a face at him, tromping down the stairs casually. “Why’re you looking for him, then?”

Huh. That’s a good question. He’s been trying to stay away from Harry, but as it happens, it’s a bit harder than he expected. Harry is so ingrained in his daily life now that it’s like asking him to suddenly stop drinking tea when he’s been doing it for over a thousand years—it simply isn’t just _given up_ like that. He had no idea just how attached he’d become to Harry in the space of half a year.

Besides, how much would it hurt Harry’s feelings if he just started ignoring him? Hurting Harry even that much would kill Louis—he just _can’t_. Of course, accidentally drinking all of his blood would certainly hurt Harry, too, but...he's hung on this long, hasn't he? Who's to say he won't be able to resist? He can't just leave Harry. He can't just be absent from his life. He has to edge away, to back up. Not gone, just out of reach. 

“I was, uh…” Louis snatches a book off one of the end tables in the sitting room. “I was going to return this to him. He let me borrow it.”

Zayn hops off the bottom step, approaching him with an eyebrow raised. “Uh-huh. You just fancied reading…” He takes the book from Louis’ hand, examining the spine. “ _The Magic of Flowers: A Guide to Their Metaphysical Uses & Properties?_”

“Yes,” Louis says, snatching it back. “Flowers are…nice.”

“You can’t even go out in the sunlight, mate.”

“Oh, really? I had _no_ idea.” Louis tosses the book back onto its end table, stalking away into the kitchen. He doesn’t mean to snap at Zayn—he doesn’t truly mean to snap at anyone—but it isn’t exactly _fun_ being reminded about your shortcomings, regardless of how many years you’ve had to adjust to them and get over it all. Louis thought he _was_ over it all…and then he met Harry.

Rolling his eyes once more at Zayn, Louis goes to the refrigerator, deciding to make a cup of tea. It takes him several seconds before he notices what’s different. He snatches the note off the refrigerator, almost snapping the strawberry-shaped magnet in half, folding it open. Harry’s slanting script stares up at him:

_Lou—or Zayn, I spose:_

_Went out for a walk to get some flowers in the woods, I’ll be back soon! Don’t worry, I brought a torch :)_ _  
_

_love, H_

Louis grins like a silly, lovesick idiot. The note was addressed to him first and foremost—and signed _love_. He grips the paper just a little bit tighter, his chest tight, feeling light and airy and almost as if he could fly at that exact moment. Because Harry signed the note _love_.

That’s when Louis realizes, his priorities shifting. Harry went for a walk at night. Alone. Of all the…

And that’s when Louis remembers. “The woods,” he reads. His head snaps up and he stares at the calendar hanging on the wall. It’s a full moon tonight. “Oh fuck,” he breathes. _Niall._

He doesn’t even call for Zayn. He drops the note to the floor, running out the front door so fast that it bangs against the wall, slowly swinging shut again as he goes blazing out into the night, thinking only _Harry Harry Harry_ …

* * *

The howl was far enough away, but something about it sends a chill straight down Harry’s neck, so cold and so precise that it’s like a wet fingertip sliding over his skin below his hairline. He sits back on his heels, looking around. He flourishes his fingers at the orb of light, but it doesn’t get much brighter, and he starts gathering up the remnants of his flowers, piling them into the basket.

He pats the ground, thanking the earth for its gift. Standing, he brushes dirt and leaves off his knees—when there’s another howl, much closer than before. He slows, inching back up to his full height. Something enters his mind, flitting through, a headline he once read.

_“No ecological reason to reintroduce wolves in Great Britain…”_

The thought strikes him like a hammer on an anvil, ringing just as clearly. There are no wolves in Great Britain. A sharp spike of panic shears through him and he can’t take a full breath.

_There are no wolves in Great Britain._

He takes several halting steps forward, stopping short, body seized by fear. A twig breaks behind him and it’s like being stabbed with an icicle. Everything goes cold. Responding to his panic, the little globe of light goes out and just like that, he’s alone in the dark forest, clutching a basket of flowers to his chest, eyes straining against the dark to see.

Something else breaks this time, something bigger. A branch, maybe. He hears a breath—or maybe he’s imagining it, but he feels it then, an eerie creeping along his skin, like something is watching him, like something is _just behind him_. He wants to look, wants to realize there isn’t anything there and feel that warm rush of relief, but he’s too scared, because what if—

A rushing sound through the leaves, bushes shaking as they’re disturbed, bounding footsteps. There’s _definitely_ something behind him.

Adrenaline takes over; Harry runs.

It’s wild, panicked, unsteady. His boots slip in mud and on mossy trees fallen over, and he almost goes pitching headfirst into blackness more than once. Branches slap his face, tearing at his clothes, tugging on his hair; he feels the ribbon he had tied around his curls get ripped away, strands falling around his face, into his eyes, and he’s running blind but it doesn’t matter, he just needs to get _away_ —

He chances a look back. He regrets it as soon as he does because he _sees it_ in a slice of moonlight breaking through the canopy above: Stalking after him, loping almost in slow-motion, is a wolf, bigger than anything he’s ever seen, its fur light and silvered by the moon. Its eyes are a dark yellow. He doesn’t even have time to register that it’s impossible, all he can do is shriek and turn back to face forward, running faster.

 _Just need to get out of the trees_ , he thinks, _just need to get closer to the house, so they can hear me—_

The footsteps get closer. He’s about to scream again when something slams into him, almost sending him spiraling down a hill into the darkness. He almost loses his basket and he gasps when a hand closes around his upper arm.

“Harry,” a voice says, breathing ragged. It’s Louis, and Harry wants to weep with joy; he’s never been so happy to see him. “Oh, thank fuck I found you. I heard a scream—”

“It was me,” Harry gasps. He whips around to look back. “Louis, there’s—” He stops. 

Nothing is there. The wind is whispering through the bushes and plants of the forest, the branches of the trees waving. Harry’s breath is coming fast and his heart sprinting in his chest so quickly that it’s a blur, a persistent ache. But _nothing is there._

“Harry?”

“I…” He struggles to breathe and get the words out at the same time. “I was…running…”

“Running?” Louis says, an edge to his voice. “From what?”

 _Something that doesn’t exist._ “I’m not sure.”

“What did you think was there?”

He almost tells Louis. He _wants_ to tell him. But he doesn’t want him to think he’s a nutter, an absolute loon who lost his mind lurching through the woods. “Nothing,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I think I just got spooked by the wind or something.”

“I thought you said you brought a torch.”

“Did I?” _The note, right._ When he wrote torch, what he really meant was magic, but he couldn’t go around saying that, could he? “Oh, yeah, I—I dropped it when I was running.”

“Did you?” Louis asks and Harry can almost swear he sounds amused. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Are you all right? That’s the most important thing. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m okay.” Trembling like a leaf and with a stitch throbbing at his side, but otherwise fine. He even still has most of his flowers in his basket, amazingly.

He must recognize that some of the adrenaline is still clinging to him because Louis drags Harry into a hug so tight that the breath is squeezed out of him and his eyes water. He doesn’t care, though, because _Louis_. He grips Louis’ sleeve tightly and buries his face in his neck, letting himself shiver in Louis’ arms, letting himself ride out the adrenaline until it dulls and he doesn’t feel so on edge anymore, until he feels warm and utterly safe, wrapped up in this mystery guy’s arms. He smells like the flower petals Harry keeps under the sofa cushions, like smoky incense and something else, something tangy and dark.

One of Louis’ hands is in Harry’s hair, twirling the curls around his fingers. “You’re okay now,” he murmurs, voice rumbling against Harry’s chest. “You’re safe.”

“Lost my ribbon,” Harry mumbles.

Louis’ hand stops. “What was that, love?”

Harry leans back. “I lost my ribbon. The one in my hair.”

“I’ll get you a new one.” Louis looks down at the basket Harry’s got clutched in one hand. “And what are these?”

“These?” Harry holds up the basket. “Night-blooming gladiolus. I needed them.”

“For…” Louis lets the word hang in there for a long moment, stretching the _r_.

“For…stuff.” He sighs, shaking his head. This secret is eating him away and he’s not sure how much more he can hold onto it. “Look, Lou—”

Louis holds up a hand. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I don’t?”

“No. It’s been a weird night, let’s just get you home. Okay?”

 _Home_. Harry likes that. “Yeah, all right.”

Louis takes his still-shaking hand and leads him out of the woods. Harry’s hand tingles all the way back and slowly, he starts to get the feeling back into his jelly-legs and stiff arms.

Zayn meets them outside, in the field of wildflowers between the house and the forest. He’s breathing hard like he was running, like Harry. There’s a look of fear on his face that Harry finds confusing, much like the one that Louis had as well. _What did they think was going on?_

“Hey, what happened?” Zayn asks.

“Nothing,” Louis says shortly as Harry opens his mouth, “just a bit of a fright, that’s all.”

“Right,” Zayn says, nodding. “Okay. Good to know.”

Harry looks between the two of them. Something is, once again, going on here and he is, once more, left out of the loop. He keeps a close watch on them when they lead him inside and take care of him. Louis picks leaves out of his hair with the gentleness of moth’s wings, fingers trailing and tipping through his curls gently. When Zayn mentions the scratches on Harry’s cheeks, Louis scuttles away, claiming he’s going to put the gladiolus in some water. 

When Louis comes back, Harry’s got one floral-print plaster on each cheek, and he smiles. “Here.” He hands Harry a mug. “Made you a cuppa.”

“Thanks,” Harry says softly.

Zayn straightens up, patting Harry’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go to bed now, but I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Harry asks.

Zayn grins, but Harry can see the shades of his aura shift, the dark purple dimming to a gray. “No idea, mate. Who knows what could be out there?” He slides a glance at Louis, as if for confirmation. “Monsters, yeah?”

Harry smiles too, but he’s not exactly comforted. “Monsters, yeah. Right. Thanks for the concern.”

“’Course. I’ll take your flowers up to your room for you, yeah?” Harry nods.“Right, night then.”

Louis and Harry both murmur goodnights, Zayn ruffling Louis’ hair as he leaves the room. Louis leaves it messy as he takes a seat at the table beside Harry.

Harry sips his tea, staring down at it. “Louis,” he says abruptly, twisting the mug in his hands, “if something was going on—like with you and Zayn and Niall, or something—you’d tell me, right?”

Louis’ tone, when he answers, is deceptively light. “Like what?”

“I dunno. If you lot were in a tiff or something.”

Louis sips genially at his own tea, eyebrows raised. “We’re not, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I know, it’s just…do things ever feel really strange to you around here?”

Louis cracks a grin. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Those humorous non-answers. Harry would hate them, if he didn’t love them so much. _Dammit, Lou._

They finish their tea in comfortable silence after that, Louis taking the cups to the sink for him and doing a quick rinse. When Harry protests, wanting to do them up properly, Louis gently takes his arm and steers him toward the stairs. He pushes him into his own room and as soon as the door is shut, he’s reaching for Harry, enveloping him in another hug.

They stand there just beyond the door, quiet and breathing each other in, Louis’ face tilted up to Harry’s neck. His skin isn’t as cold as usual, and there’s a faint stream of breath, just a hint, like a kitten breathing against the pad of his finger. Louis’ hands are tight, fingers dug into the fabric of Harry’s jumper, and Harry realizes, his own arms more loosely wrapped across Louis’ back, that there’s something wrong.

“You scared me,” Louis says softly, as if he can read Harry’s mind. “I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“I dunno,” Louis says, shaking his head. His hair is tickling the line of Harry’s jaw, but he wouldn’t dare move away and ruin this moment, not now. “I just didn’t like the thought of you out there alone. What if something had happened?”

“Louis,” he says, utterly serious. “Nothing happened. I’m _fine_.”

“You are _now_ ,” Louis mutters, pulling back to look up at him. “I couldn’t—I can’t lose you. You know that, right? It would kill me.”

This is the most solemn that Harry has ever seen Louis, his blue-green eyes unwavering, his hands shaking slightly on Harry’s shoulders. “I really scared you,” he says, amazed.

“Of course you did!” Louis smiles then, shaking his head. “I know it’s stupid, but—”

“No, it’s not, Lou.” He hugs him again. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” _I love you._

“It’s okay, petal. Just…can you promise me something?” His hands are always so soft, so careful and slight, in Harry’s hair, as though he’s doing something of great importance, something he doesn’t dare mess up. Harry thinks of a passage he read once: _And I serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green_. It's like Louis, his hands delicate and magical. 

“Anything,” Harry says.

He pulls away from Harry, one of his hands falling away. The other sits comfortably on Harry’s shoulder, his thumb warm against his collarbone. “Don’t go out again after dark alone? It’s not safe.”

“Lou, we live in the country.” And yet, that image of the wolf behind him is there, sitting behind his eyelids and he knows that there’s something out there, that it _isn’t_ safe. And he knows Louis knows something about it, about this thing that should be impossible but isn’t. _Who is he?_

“Well, the country can be just as scary as the city, y’know. Now, promise me you won’t go out again at night without me?”

“I promise. Next time, we’ll have an adventure.”

Louis laughs. “Everything’s an adventure with you.” He pats Harry’s cheek. “But I think you’ve had enough adventure for one night. Come on, into bed!”

Harry brushes his teeth, going back to his room in just his shirt and pants. He puts his clothes in the basket while Louis examines his bookshelf, perusing the spines. When Harry is settled under the covers, Louis sinks down next to him on the bed, so close that Harry can count every one of his eyelashes again, can see the marks in his ears where piercings might have been, can see every little bit of Louis.

Louis, he can see, is looking at his lips.

“Lou, do you think—”

He leans in, cups Harry’s cheek, and kisses him. The way he does it, it’s like he’s been waiting, like he’s been up on a tightrope and finally found his balance, the perfect second, right in the middle of all things. He takes Harry's lips so fully, drinking him in, that it feels like he’s trying to catch Harry’s breath, to take it and make it his own. Like he needs it, like he can’t breathe. 

It’s warm, enveloping, and just enough that it knocks every sensible thought out of Harry’s head. It’s too brief, though; Louis pulls back, his eyes wide. “I’m—sorry, I dunno what that was about, it was just second nature—”

Harry covers Louis’ hand with his own, slowly opening his eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispers, voice feather-light. “I like it when you kiss me. I always like it.”

Louis shudders out a breath, moves like he’s going to lean in again but he stops himself, pulling away. His fingers curling into clenched fists. “We shouldn’t,” he says softly, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t, I mean. You’re so young.”

Harry cocks his head at that. It’s such an odd thing to say. Sometimes Louis really does sound so _old._ “You’re only a few years older than me.”

“I—I know, it’s just that…I don’t know, I don’t want to hurt you.” Louis looks away. Slowly, he uncurls his fingers, places his palms flat against his thighs.

“You won’t,” Harry says, touching his knee, pulling his attention back to him. “If this is about that time in the kitchen, I don’t care about that. It wasn’t weird.” _I liked it I liked it I liked it_. “I promise.”

“That was—you know, it just—I was high,” Louis says firmly. “Really high.”

“I get it, Zayn always gets weird when he smokes too much. A good weird, though,” Harry adds hastily. “It’s just…it doesn’t have to mean anything, you know? If you don’t want.”

Louis peers at him closely, for such a long moment that Harry starts thinking there’s something on his face, that he said something wrong. “You don’t really feel that way, do you?” he finally asks. His voice is just above a whisper.

Slowly, Harry shakes his head. “No. It means…”

“Something, yeah. To me, too. I want it to.”

“So do I. I just—”

“Don’t diminish yourself,” Louis says suddenly. “Don’t lie about what you want just to make someone else happy. You deserve to have what you want, no matter what.”

“Well, in that case…” Harry pats the space next to him, smiling. “Do you think maybe you could stay with me tonight? Just until I fall asleep?”

 Louis looks at him in that _way_ , like he’s seen the whole of the world and is still amazed at Harry, _by_ Harry. It makes his cheeks warm.

He nods, swallowing tightly. “Yeah, I can stay. I’ll stay all night, if you want.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Harold,” he says, smiling fondly. “I’ll stay.”

That settles it. Louis goes back to his room to throw on a pair of joggers and when he comes back, Harry is already half-asleep. He still hears Louis click off the lamp on his bedside table though, still feels him slide into bed, still feels his gentle touch at his shoulder. Without being asked, Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s chest, pressing his cheek to the middle of Harry’s back, and he can breathe finally and fully, letting out a rush of warm relief, of fear. He’s safe here, with Louis. No nightmares, no worries, nothing but the soft press of him at his back, no matter how cold he is, and the reassuring rise and fall of his chest, no matter how small the breaths.  

 _Don’t diminish yourself_.

“Thank you,” he says into the dark.

The whisper comes to him from just beyond his left ear. “For what?”

“Right now. Earlier.”

“So, everything.”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “Yes, everything.”

There are several moments of quiet, spaces stretching between them, when Harry feels Louis’ lips move between his shoulderblades. “Harry, do you want me to kiss you?”

Harry nods, eyes closed. Breathlessly, he says, “All the time.”

He feels the press of Louis’ mouth, feels the tiny beat of his breath on his back. He smiles. That’s not exactly what he meant, but for right now, it’s enough.

“You know what I keep thinking, about earlier?”

“Hm?”

“I could’ve sworn it was a wolf,” Harry says drowsily. He meant to say it in his dream, but he figures by the way Louis stiffens behind him that he said it out loud. By then, however, it’s too late to stop and he falls into sleep, tripping down into a dream.

Louis does exactly as he says and stays all night, curled around Harry like he’s keeping a promise, honoring a prayer.

* * *

Harry wakes to shouting the next morning. Shouting, and what sounds to him like very literal snarling, as if someone’s let a particularly angry terrier in the house. Groggily, he pulls himself out of sleep.

He dreams were odd, twisting things. There were lots of dark passageways and paths for him to follow, but they were like labyrinths. He got lost more than anything. He was following someone, but he didn’t know who, or where they were supposed to be going. All he knew was that every time he seemed to get close, they were whipping just out of sight around the next corner.

At least there were no dreams of what happened in the woods. Harry wonders if he had Louis to thank for that.

He also has him to thank for waking him up, because one of the voices that is shouting is quite clearly his.

“When are you gonna get your head out of your ass—” he’s saying, “—do as your told for once in _your life_ —just drink the damn stuff, why is it always such a struggle with you—”

The other voice seems to be Niall, as Harry hears quite a few choice words in Irish, which is a language he didn’t think his rather-modern friend knew. “ _Feisigh leat! Tá tú chomh haineolach le cúl magaralach_ —"

“Speak English, you fucking—”

Niall actually _growls_ , switching over, some of his words drowned out. “—not everyone can just switch it on and off all the time, stop thinking you know better than me, you don’t know fuck all about it—why d’ya always have to be such a know-it-all cunt about everything—”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Louis snaps. “You’ll wake up Harry and Zayn.”

“Well then we can all not sleep together, you prick! Christ, I only _just_ got home, why won’t you just leave me alone?”

Huh. Harry didn’t even know Niall was out, he thought he was just having an early nighter since he wasn’t feeling well. He seems okay now, though. Besides the obvious.

“Well, if you would just let someone _help_ , you stubborn wanker, then—”

“You have _no idea_ what it’s like—”

“Don’t I? At least you get a break in between, this is something I have to live with on a daily basis—”

 “Oh, _right_ ,” Niall says sarcastically, “I forgot, everything’s got to be about you! You know what, you—”

Their voices rises an octave, but they’re overlapping, no words discernible to Harry’s ears other than the occasional highlights of profanity. He rolls over. His other pillow smells like Louis; he takes a deep breath in through his nose, wondering what in the hell is going on. None of them have ever fought before, so it seems rather extreme. Arguments, sure, little biting remarks, but never actual shouting matches. He's thinking he might have to play ref here in a second if they don't settle down. 

“—have any idea what might have happened?

“I _said,_ I’m sorry!”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to!”

The house goes quiet at that. Harry frowns into his pillow. _What on earth?_ He sits up straight, shifting his legs out from underneath his blankets. He grabs his jumper off the back of his desk chair, pulling it on as he opens his bedroom door and peeks out, edging into the hallway.  

They’re down in the sitting room. Niall is sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs, his head in his hands. Louis is staring at him from the other end of the coffee table, standing at his full height, his arms folded across his chest and a glare burning out from his features like a beam of anger. Something has really upset him.

“Okay,” Niall says quietly, raising his head. There’s a smear of mud on his arm and a leaf in his hair. Harry steps closer to the second-floor railing to see better; he looks terrible, his eyes bloodshot and dark circles seemingly swallowing his eyes whole. He looks like he spent the night in an outdoor drunk tank, rather than in his room. _What…,_ Harry thinks blankly.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

“Okay, I’ll…I dunno. Do something to make up for it.”

Louis’ tone softens, the anger starting to fade from his face. He uncrosses his arms, lets them fall back down to his side. “Thank you.”

Niall sighs, dropping his head back down. “’M tired.”

“I know. It was a long one.”

Niall laughs, but for the first time since Harry’s known him, it’s not a happy one. His voice cracks when he says, “Gonna be another long one tonight, too.”

“Niall—”

“It’s fine,” he says brusquely. “What else am I gonna do about it? It’s not like I can just…not go.”

“Maybe you can—”

He shakes his head sharply. “No. I’ve tried that before.”

There is a long moment of silence where neither of them says anything. The grandfather clock goes off, startling Harry; he nearly falls right over the balustrade and down into the sitting room between them. It _bongs_ seven times for the morning hour, and he remembers all at once that he has a job he needs to get ready for. But he can’t make himself move. He has to wait this out, has to see how it all ends.

“Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“I really am sorry,” Niall says, his voice tiny; Harry has to lean forward to hear him. “I never—you know, I’d never do anything to hurt him. Either of them. I love them. It was just a stupid mistake. And I…”

“I know, Ni.” Louis crosses the sitting room, puts his hands on Niall’s shoulders. “It’s okay now. I’m sorry I yelled, but…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, I know. I get it. I’ll go further out tonight. You don’t have to worry.”

“Okay. Thank you. I’ll come out and meet you if I can. Y’know, if you want.”

Niall looks up at Louis, smiling hesitantly. “That’d be nice. Haven’t done that in a while.” He clears his throat. “Sorry I called you a cunt, by the way.”

“It’s all right.” Louis smiles, too. “You wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t. Go to bed now, yeah? You look like absolute shit.”

“Thank you, Lou, really.” Niall rolls his eyes, still grinning. “I can always count on you to make me feel better.”

“’S what I’m here for, lad.” He presses a friendly kiss to the top of Niall’s head, ruffling his hair. He pulls back with a sour look on his face. “And take a shower, will you? You smell like wet dog.”

“Ha-bloody-ha. Laugh riot, you.”

And just like that, they’re back to normal; or, as normal as they can be, with how strange that conversation was. Harry stares at them a minute more before Niall stands and he realizes he’s going to come up the stairs; he flees back into his room, floating so he doesn’t make a sound, closing the door behind him with a barely perceptible snap.

What was that about? What could have possibly made Louis so angry that he had to yell at Niall the moment he got in? Where was he the night before, and where were they going that night? Too many questions, not enough answers.

As Harry lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he decides: It’s time for him to figure out what the _hell_ is going on around here.

* * *

Things get even weirder the following week.

Harry wants to follow Louis and Niall that night to whatever secret destination they’re headed to, but a horse is giving birth a few miles away, and the usual veterinary assistant is at her sister’s wedding in Manchester, so Harry is expected to lend a hand. He’s out in a barn until around two in the morning, and when he gets back home, all he wants to do is have a shower and pass out, dazed and amazed though he is by the miracle of life. The farmer took the name that he suggested, and now the little filly Sparkle is alive and enjoying the world.  

Niall looks peaky and exhausted for another two days, but after that, he’s back to his regular cheery self. He and Louis have a couple of snappish moments, but other than that, the tension has all but abated. The oddity, however, has not.

Niall starts going out of his way to do nice things for Harry. He makes him breakfast—not all of them, just Harry. He cleans, which is something he very rarely does, because he and Louis are class-A slobs. He buys the sweeties that Harry likes, lets Harry pick what movies and shows they watch on the telly, and even buys a few flowers for him from a shop halfway back to London because they’re the only shop that has them and Harry mentions he wants some.

“You cast a love spell on Niall or somethin’, mate?” Zayn asks one afternoon, after Niall practically runs out the door to get the jumper Harry accidentally left at the vet’s office.

“I…don’t think so,” Harry says, but all at once he isn’t sure. Sometimes, when a witch’s emotions are at a heightened state, magic _can_ happen. Accidents all around the world are due to magic, though regular people don’t know it. Harry’s never really cast accidentally before, so he’s afraid that he might have for once, and in the worst possible way. To be certain, he makes up a potion to counter the effects in a beer and gives it to Niall. He drains the entire thing and _still_ lets Harry put a nature documentary on rather than a footie match, so he figures it wasn’t something he did.

The next day is a bank holiday, so they’re all off work. Niall gets the grand idea that they’re going to have a drive and a picnic, and decides to inform Zayn and Harry of it the morning of by waking them up at half past nine. He looks ragged and worn out, like he’s been taking too many shifts at the restaurant, so Harry thinks it’s a good idea. Maybe a little holiday is what they all need.

Harry makes breakfast while Niall prepares a picnic basket and Zayn gathers up everything else they’ll need.

Louis, of course, declines. “Too sunny for me, lads,” he says sleepily, lounging in his doorway, all loose and warm from several hours of sleep already. Harry almost wants to abandon the trip entirely just to stay home with Louis looking like that, rumpled and delicious, but halfway through breakfast, he’s nodding off at his plate, so Zayn carries Louis into his room with Harry at his heels. Harry tucks him in, brushing his hair back from his face, looking down at him. He’s cold again, but Harry doesn’t mind. As soon as Zayn leaves the room, Harry bends down and kisses Louis’ forehead, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.

Harry thinks that Louis smiles in his sleep at that, but it could just be a trick of his eyes. He closes the door to Louis’ room quietly, even knowing that it won’t wake him up.

Niall makes a grab for Zayn’s keys but he swerves easily; Niall is a maniac and absolutely must not be trusted behind a wheel. They drive through the verdant countryside with the windows down, wind swimming through their hair, Harry’s curls bouncing along his shoulders. It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful day that Harry has ever seen. The sky is an arching, endless blue overhead, wisps of clouds meandering across its surface in twists and whorls. Patches of flowers in shades of vivid yellow, blue, pink, and white dot the rolling hills and brighten the dark exteriors of the copses they pass. The air is warm and smells sweet and salty at the same time, and Harry knows they’re driving towards the ocean. He can taste it before he sees it.

Zayn picks a spot along the coast that he says he found last month, and he parks right on the side of the road. Zayn grabs his parasols and a blanket, Niall hauls out his coolers and six-packs of beer, and Harry reaches for the other things _:_ Zayn’s sketchbook and colored pencils, Niall’s sunscreen and trunks, and Harry’s own basket filled with flowers and a myriad of other items such as needles, thread, beads and a couple of books that make the basket one of the heaviest items in the trunk.

When Harry stumbles over to the grassy knoll where Zayn has spread out the blanket and parasols, Niall already has plates set up and is divvying up the food. He’s made them cute little cucumber sandwiches, something Harry didn’t think Niall was even capable of, and with them are nibbles of fruit and vegetables and a pomegranate green tea with star-shaped ice cubes in it. Harry practically turns his hair pink again, he’s so pleased and impressed.

“Niall, this is amazing!”

His face breaks out in a relieved smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s wonderful!”

“Oh, good. I wanted to do something nice for you lads. Make up for some of the…I dunno, some of the shit lately. _My_ shit,” he clarifies.

“Wha—” Harry starts, but Zayn puts a hand on his shoulder to silence him.

He smiles at Niall. “It’s okay, mate. We understand. I think I can speak for all of us in saying we really appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes. “We really do.” _I am so, so confused._ He opened his mouth to ask, but Niall gets up suddenly and goes back to the car. Harry watches him go. He must be frowning, because Zayn laughs at the look on his face.

“He just wants to apologize for being such a grumpy fuck lately. He’s been having a hard time right now.”

“But _why_? What’s going on with him that he won’t talk about?” _To me_ , Harry thinks, since it seems that everyone in the house knows what’s going on besides him.

“It’s nothing serious,” Zayn says breezily. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

For the next few hours, Harry tries. He eats with Zayn and Niall, who wolfs down a few sandwiches but refuses to touch the vegetables and fruit, shaking his head. “Just because I’m a chef doesn’t mean I like eating rabbit food,” he says and Harry makes faces at him for that comment which, of course, leads to the two of them getting into a water fight down by the shore. Niall strips bare and yanks on his trunks before jumping into the waves, sending volleys of saltwater in their direction until Zayn yells at him and goes charging into the water too. They wrestle around, splashing each other, while Harry sits on the beach, stringing flowers together and weaving beads onto their stems, sticking his tongue out in concentration. When the boys are distracted, he does it with magic, making it all come together in a snap with less than half the effort.

When they come back to the parasols, dragging themselves out of the water, Zayn looks absolutely radiant, his hair slicked back from the water with one stubborn strand hanging down over his forehead. His skin practically glows bronze in the sun, flaring with the joy and strength of his natural habitat, still smelling of the ocean when he plops down beside Niall on the blanket. Niall shakes water out of his hair like a dog and Zayn laughs aloud.

“Here,” Harry says, handing them flower crowns he’s constructed. He put a spell on them, too, so the flowers will take longer to wilt. For Niall, he has cornflowers and white daisies, for friendship and love; for Zayn, yarrow and pink daisies, symbolizing protection and love as well. 

Zayn and Niall examine their crowns, straightening them for each other. “Yeah?” Niall asks, using Zayn as his mirror.

“Yeah, brilliant.”

Niall puffs his chest out proudly for all of one second before a dawning look of realization brightens across his face. “Oh!” Niall says. “That reminds me.” He reaches over Zayn, rummaging around in one of his bags. He pulls out a handful of colorful items, dumping them into Harry’s hands. “These are for you.”

“For me?” He looks down. In his hands are a dozen lengths of ribbon in a number of colors. “What on earth for?”

“You lost your hair ribbon! Louis told me.” Niall’s cheeks go pink as Zayn looks between the two of them curiously. “So I thought I’d get you some new ones, but I wasn’t sure what colors to get, so I, uh…got all of them.”

“I…” Harry doesn’t know what to say. He pets the ribbons softly, straightening them and setting them down gently on his bag. “Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Here,” Niall says excitedly, reaching for a vivid yellow one that matches the shorts Harry’s wearing. “Put this one in! And…” He grabs for the pink one, too. “This one!”

Carefully, Niall and Zayn help him braid them into his hair (Zayn mostly, Niall's fingers are clumsy) and when they’re done, he hugs them both, feeling a rush of warm affection for the pair of them. He hugs Niall particularly long, telling him, “Thank you, they’re beautiful.” When he releases Niall, he smacks a kiss on his cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Haz.”

“C’mere,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Let’s take some pictures!”

They all crowd around on the blanket, and Harry takes several photos of the three of them with their ribbons and flowers, various ridiculous expressions on their faces. “All right, you two,” he says, looking at them with a soft smile. “Go play.”

The sun vanishes behind some clouds, but Zayn buries Niall in the sand anyway and they lay out there for a long time. Harry thinks they’re holding hands, but he can’t be sure from where he sits, stringing beads onto stretchy cord. When they come back to Harry’s side under the parasols, Niall falls asleep with his sunglasses on, sprawled on the blanket and snoring loudly; Harry takes pictures of him and Zayn as he sketches the waves and the flowery hill behind them. He sketches Harry, too, but he doesn’t finish because a wind whips up and they have to hurry to pack up their food and flowers.

The sunshine of the morning has mostly faded, the world turning cooler, dimming to grays and blues. Zayn wakes Niall gently, and the three of them carry their things back to the car.

Even though he knows Louis is dead asleep, he sends him some pictures on the way back, the ones of them with their flower crowns and playing in the water.

 _wish u were here :)_ _  
_

He sends the photos and is about to set his phone back down when something catches his eye. He holds the phone up to his face, squinting at it while Zayn hums along to the music on the radio and Niall snores in the backseat.

It’s a photo of the three of them crowded into the frame. Zayn is mid-laugh, water droplets clinging to his cheeks and neck. Harry is laughing, too, his tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth, the ends of the ribbons woven into his curls trailing over his shoulders. But it’s Niall that catches his attention. Niall usually closes his eyes in just about every picture that’s taken of him, smiling so hard and so brightly that it’s a natural effect. But in this one, his eyes are open.

And they’re not blue. They’re…well, Harry can’t really tell what color they are, because there’s a white flash nearly obscuring Niall’s face. It’s just like the picture they all took together, Louis a blinding light in the sun. When Harry looks closer, though, he thinks…

Niall’s eyes might be yellow.

Which is impossible. Because they’re blue. He’s got those classic Irish looks: dark hair and blue eyes, but he dyes his hair because, as Louis says, he’s more vain than he’d care to admit. When Harry zooms in on the photo, Niall’s eyes pixelating, he’s almost certain they’re yellow.

Which is still impossible.

Harry thinks about _Alice in Wonderland_. “Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” he murmurs.

“What?” Zayn asks, glancing over at him.

“Nothing!” Harry says quickly, exiting out of the picture and setting his phone back down. He doesn’t say a thing on the way back to the house, but his mind is full to overflowing. He twirls the pink ribbon around and around his finger, over and over again, the entire way home. 

* * *

Harry, not knowing what else to do, makes up a list. An hour later, all he has is:

_niall:_

_-leaves a few days every month_

_-stinks??_

_-the HAIR EVERYWHERE!!!!_

_-eyes…in the picture…?_

_-idk what any of this means_

He decides to make another list. This one takes him even less time, and makes him even more confused.

_louis:_

_-where do i even start_

_-sleeps all day_

_-doesn’t eat...?_

_-goes out at night_

_-the picture on the mantel_

_-he moves really fast_

_-acts really weird/talks really weird sometimes?_

_-why is everyone in this house so weird…_

_-why do i have NO IDEA WHAT’S HAPPENING_

He throws his glittery gel-pen across the room and lays his head down on his sunflower-patterned notebook in frustration. He closes his eyes, considering his options. He could just _ask_. But would he get a straight answer? He can picture it now, the responses he would get: Zayn tilting his head like a confused cat; Niall, just laughing; and Louis smirking, eyes glimmering, like he knows all the secrets to the universe. Because he does. Probably. 

He sighs. As if on cue, his phone rings from next to his head. He rolls over to look at it with one eye, sliding the lock button and bringing it to his ear. “My roommates are _stupid_ ,” he groans, closing his eyes again.

His sister Gemma laughs on the other end. “Hi to you, too. How’s it going out there?”

Harry fills her in, minus the weird stuff. She calls every few weeks or so to hear his voice, though they text virtually every day. He talks all about his magic and how things are at the vet where he works and how he’s absolutely in love with a family of ducks at a nearby farm. He asks after their mum and how uni is going for her in the city, and they talk about getting together the next time he and the boys are nearby.

“I want to meet them,” she says eagerly. “You talk about them all the time but I’ve never once seen them. I’m starting to think—and Mum agrees with me—that they might not be real.”

Harry laughs. “Oh, please. They’re _real_. Here, I’ll send you a picture.” He holds his phone out, sending her the pictures from the beach trip several days before. He waits until he hears the chime on the other end and her hum of approval. “See?”

“Your flower skills have improved, I see. But there’s only two of them here.”

“Yeah, Lou doesn’t like to go out during the day.”

Gemma chirps at that. “ _Lou_ , huh? Cute. But who doesn’t go out during the day? Honestly. How does he work?”

“He doesn’t. He’s independently wealthy."

"That's... the weirdest shit I've ever heard."

"Well, it's going to get weirder. Because he's also allergic to the sun.

Gemma laughs. "What, is he a vampire or something?”

“Of course not,” Harry says cheerfully, rolling his eyes, but then the entire world seems to _slow_ on its axis,

 

until

it

stops.

 

A voice shouts in Harry’s mind, far away and fuzzy, but he can’t make it out. It comes closer, beating like the wings of a great bird, pulsing. As it comes closer, he can hear it for what it is: _Vampire_ , it says, getting louder and louder, a shout, a scream of white noise and cars crashing, _VAMPIRE, VAMPIRE_. Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight, shaking his head.

_Vampire. Vam. Pire. Noun. From old Slavic “upir.”_

Vam— _what?_

Just like that, the world is spinning again, going even faster to catch up. Harry sits up, looking down at his list. Gemma is prattling on happily, but he can’t hear what she’s saying because all he can see are his bullet points: _Sleeps all day, doesn’t eat, goes out at night, moves really fast…_ And this is real life? This is something that’s actually happening, right?

The image of that night when he kissed Louis’ freckles comes back to him and he has a flash memory of the blood at the corner of Louis’ mouth.

Harry drops his phone. It clatters to the desk, his ears rushing with noise. Quickly, he picks it back up to hear Gemma. “—still there? I swear, if you hung up on me—”

“Sorry, Gem, I dropped the phone. I do actually have to go, though. I’ll call you back?” He practically squeaks, “Later?”

“All right, sure. Go be your witchy self. Love you!” Gemma trills and the line goes dead.

As soon as it does, he flings the phone across the room like it’s a venomous creature, jumping up from his desk and pacing around his room. It can’t be true. Except that it _can_ , because the evidence is all there, on the list and in his head. It’s something they’ve all seen, for weeks, months even, over and over—

Wait. Something they've  _all_ seen?

_Wait._

Harry charges out of his room, shouting for Zayn. He’s in the bathroom, of course, in the bath and listening to music much too loudly for a room with acoustics as good as a loo. Harry pounds on the door with a fist, but Zayn must not be able to hear him—or is blatantly ignoring him—because he doesn’t answer.

“’e’s taking a bath,” Niall says. Harry leans out over the second story railing. Niall is in the sitting room down below, sat on the couch, headphones around his neck and a hand rustling around in a bag of crisps. He jams a handful of them into his mouth, crunching loudly, surely getting crumbs all over the nice clean sofa and floor.

“You,” Harry says, pointing. He comes down the stairs, advancing on Niall on the couch.

Niall raises his eyebrows at him. “Yeah? Whaddya want?”

“Did you know?”

Niall crams another handful of crisps into his mouth. “Know what, you nutter?”

“Did you _know_?”

“Harry, what—”

“You had to have known, you’re his oldest friend. And you’re _my_ friend now, too, and Zayn’s. And you wouldn’t keep things from me, right?” He turns his big green eyes on Niall, blinking innocently. “Right, Niall?”

Niall stares at Harry for all of seven seconds. His face crumples and he breaks, setting the crisps aside. “Christ, Harry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“What do you know?”

Niall jumps to his feet. “What do _you_ know?” He instinctively touches his own chest, nervous suddenly. “Did you—do you know about—this isn’t like, _me_ by any chance, is it?”

“You? What about you?”

“Nothing!” Niall says loudly, brightly, grinning evasively. “Nothing at all!”

Harry frowns with as much ferocity as he can muster, which is about the equivalent of an angry kitten. “Niall."

Niall pales considerably. “I—uh—”

“Weren’t we just talking about how you’d never lie to me?”

The music goes off suddenly upstairs. The pipes clank and gurgle, and Harry knows that’s the sound of water draining. Zayn’ll be out, soon. Matter of fact, he’s pretty much already done, so it can’t hurt to just…

Niall can read his idea on his face. “Harry, don’t you dare.”

Harry stares at Niall, narrowing his eyes—and he darts for the stairs. Niall shouts after him, rushing to catch him and he does, throwing himself at Harry and hugging him around the knees. They both tumble on the stairs, all the air flying out of Harry with an _“oof.”_ He struggles along like an inchworm, kicking Niall free of him; one of his pink striped socks catches Niall in the chin and his head snaps back. " _Ack_ , Harry, you little—" he grits out. He lets go of Harry instantly, and Harry runs up the stairs on all fours, scrambling to his feet when he reaches the top.

He busts the door to the bathroom open. Zayn is laying in the dwindling water of the bathtub, spooning ice cream into his mouth from a bowl. His eyes widen and he slowly lowers his spoon. "What?" he asks thickly. "Why're you being weird?"

Harry can’t help but stare; he hasn’t seen Zayn in his “water look” in a long time, and it’s…disconcerting, to say the least. Not _bad_ , just different, scales shimmering from his fingers up to his elbows and from his knees down to his feet. Harry whirls around to block the door from Niall, but he’s already there. Harry can’t shut the door with him standing there and Zayn can’t snap the shower curtain shut fast enough.

Niall looks at Zayn, then at Harry—and his eyes widen as he realizes it. His gaze slowly drags back to Zayn. He backs up, pressing himself against the wall, covering his mouth with both hands. His blue eyes are enormous.

Zayn stands, setting his ice cream bowl aside and covering himself with the shower curtain. “Niall, just…hang on, mate, don’t…”

Niall lowers his hands. They’re shaking a little bit. “ _Scales_ ,” he whispers, horrified. “ _Gills!_ ”

"Harry," Zayn says, voice rising, " _what_ is going on?"

"Is Louis a vampire?"

"What," Zayn yells. " _That's_ what you want to know?" He flaps his hands, gesturing between the three of them. " _Now?_ "

"Who gives a shit about Louis," Niall manages, pointing at Zayn. "What the hell are you?"

Zayn scowls at that. " _Me_? What about you?" 

"Wait," Harry says, head whipping back and forth between them. "You're something too?"

"No," Niall says, trying to laugh it off, but it's weak and practiced even to Harry's ears. "No, I'm—"

"Stop lying to him," Zayn yells. "All you and Louis have ever done is  _lie—"_

"You have _scales,_ for Christ's sake! Talk about lies and secrets, mate." Niall's hands fly into his hair. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just said that. I can't believe I'm _seeing_ this." He shakes his head. "That's it. I'm losing my mind." 

Their voices are too much. Harry can't stand it, can't stand the tension in the room, the fear and confusion and  _lies._ He holds his hands out, shaking his head. "Stop," he murmurs.  _  
_

" _Gills, oh my god_ —"

"Mate, can we just talk about this—"

"Who even are you? Like a swamp thing? Zayn of the black lagoon? Oh my god, this makes sense, you're so into Aquaman and literally  _no one_ likes Aquaman, honestly, what the fu—"

"Niall, shut up, you don't even know—"

" _Stop_ ," Harry shouts, and just like that, a cloud of pink glitter  _bursts_ from Harry's hands, shooting into the air. It blankets all the space around them, filling the loo with soft light. 

Time slows, the glitter floating slowly, suspended there between them. It colors them all rose, and they fall silent. Niall stares with his mouth open, still pressed back to the wall. Zayn is still standing in the tub, clutching the shower curtain around him like it's a skirt. 

There are footsteps on the stairs.

Niall reaches up, touching several motes of the glitter. They come apart, dissolving into sparkling dust, the stuff that pixies and dreams are made of. He brings his hand back, smearing the dust on his fingertips. "What..." he breathes. "What _are_ you?" 

"He's magic," a new voice says. 

They all look toward the open door. Louis is standing there in a pair of joggers and a gray jumper, the sleeves falling over his hands, obscuring them from sight. His hair is standing on end, rumpled and sleep-mussed. He's frowning. 

He folds his arms over his chest. "He's a witch," Louis says. Harry gapes. He's _known—_?

He points a finger at each of them. "Let's see. Zayn's a siren, Niall's a werewolf." Harry squawks at that, he and Zayn both looking at Niall, who shrugs guiltily.

"And I'm a vampire." 

Silence.

There they are, the four of them, standing in a quadrant, a square, a four-leaf clover. The number four dictates life, not just theirs, but everyone's: Four seasons, four elements, four directions, four oceans. The four of them. The puzzle, completed. 

Louis looks around at the three of them, eyebrows raised. "Now, can we stop all the shouting?" His gaze finds Zayn and he grins. "And can you put some clothes on?"

Four friends. Four monsters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -"The Magic of Flowers: A Guide to Their Metaphysical Uses & Properties" is definitely a real book, i checked  
> -"And I serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green" is from A Midsummer Night's Dream by Shakespeare  
> -what Niall says in Irish means "fuck you, you're as ignorant as the back of me bollix" unless i'm totally wrong, in which case.....oops


End file.
